


Touch-Starved, 15 Kisses

by Veelez (Hyela)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kisses, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:32:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyela/pseuds/Veelez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of 15 kisses all centered around the theme of loneliness and needing to touch, or be touched.<br/>Various pairings (or non-pairings for that matter!), various body parts being kissed.<br/>Not-rated, but you can assume based on the body part being kissed.<br/>I decided to write this as an aperitif for my longer fics.<br/>Also, none of this is beta'd. This is all rough drafts, vomited words on paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On the Nose (Scott + Melissa)

  
**1- On the nose**   
_Melissa + Scott_   


Scott’s parents do not kiss anymore. He sees Stiles’s mom and dad all enamoured with each other, as his mother would say, kissing in public and staring at each other for too long. He sees Jackson’s parents arm in arm or hand in hand whenever he sees them. Even Heather’s parents, who are not together, still hug each other and kiss on the cheek. But Scott’s parents have difficulty to even hold their gaze. All they ever seem to do anymore is glaring, letting painful silences install themselves in the house. These silences seem more and more like a permanent thing, like there’s nothing else to say anymore.

  
One day, Scott gathered the courage to share all of this with his mom (not his dad, though: his dad is not the sharing type). However, all he managed to do is utter a few words before starting to tremble and having to fight tears. He hadn’t even realized that these thoughts made him sad. Melissa McCall looked over at him worriedly and, when he could not say anything else, she wiped the tears from his cheeks, held his face in her hands and kissed him on the nose. Then, she roamed a hand through his —too long— hair and smiled, telling him about how she was here if he needed her, that if he was so sad, he could always count on her.

  
Scott immediately felt better. He thought a lot about this, he would have thought until a headache came if he had to, and he finally came to a conclusion: it was okay. It was okay that his parents didn’t touch anymore. It was okay that his father was so distant with both his wife and son, as if he was already living miles away in another life. What mattered was that he still had a mom, and that her mom liked him the most. She always was by his side. Even when Scott heard her cry at night, she would smile brightly at Scott in the morning, and that smile would be real and beautiful, like Melissa didn’t need another man. Like Scott sufficed to make her happy.  
And her kisses were sweet too.


	2. On the Forehead (Stiles + Sheriff Stilinski)

  
**2- On the forehead**   
_Sheriff Stilinski + Stiles_   


Stiles —as that was his name now. Nobody was allowed to call him something else— missed his mother’s kisses. Her mother always was a kissing type of person. Her hellos would be punctuated with a kiss, so would her goodbyes; she would kiss good night and good morning; she would randomly kiss friends and family on the head when she was happy.... It was almost an annoying habit, especially when she insisted on doing so publicly, or worse, when she did it to his friends. Of course, Scott and Heather didn’t mind, but they still snickered at Stiles and called him a mommy’s boy when no adult was around. It was embarrassing.  
Stiles missed this embarrassment.

  
Now, his friends would avoid being mocking, even gently so, and would just look sorry all the time. Now, his skin felt cold half of the time, from the lack of touches. Stiles had never felt so alone and attention-starved in his life. He decided that he had it when he saw Scott’s mother kissing his friend on the head one day. When he got home and noticed that his father was there —he missed work from time to time. Stiles suspected him to lock himself up in his room to cry and drink. Stiles did the same, minus the alcohol— he went to his room and knocked on his door. Then he entered, in case his father hadn’t noticed.

  
John Stilinski was sitting on his bed, in boxers, staring at the wall. Effectively, there were a few bottles on the floor, but fortunately not an alarming number. The man slowly turned his head towards his son, eyes a bit wide and glassy, but still lucid. Stiles trotted to his father, posted himself before him, inhaled deeply, and declared “I want to be kissed.”

  
Stiles’s father was more of a huggy type of person, and even then, the other person’s had to initiate any kind of affectionate gesture for him to follow. He was also a man, which somehow made the whole thing more awkward. After a certain age, little boys ceased to kiss their father, like there was some kind of stupid unspoken rule about that. But it had to be him, because Stiles missed his father, and because he wouldn’t be able to stand it if another mother kissed him the way his own did. He would break down into tears. And he had cried enough.

  
John Stilinski stared at his son for merely a second before leaning on and kissing Stiles on the forehead, a smacking kiss accompanied by pats on his arms. Then, he hugged him tightly... and let himself drop backward on the back, a tired groan escaping him. A moment after that, he was snoring. It didn’t matter though, because Stiles happily trotted back to his room, giddy with the precious knowledge that he simply had to ask.


	3. On the Cheek (Lydia + Stiles)

  
**3- On the cheek**   
_Stiles/Lydia_   


The kid is trying to make her laugh, that much is obvious, but why? Of course, it had something to do with her hiding behind an oak tree to cry —not the best hiding place— and him finding her, but what motivated him to care, what reason did he have to try and make her feel better? Why would he joke around with a strange, weeping girl, telling more or less amusing anecdotes —but mostly incomprehensible as he was spitting them at the speed of light— barely holding into place? Was it pity? Lydia’s mom told her all about pity and how it was disastrous for someone to be at the end of it. Pity inevitably attracted shame or contempt. Maybe it wasn’t pity. The boy looked genuine in his efforts to get a smile out of her. So maybe he wanted something from her. She knew all about that too. People would do things for you, hoping that you would do things for them in return. There was no real friendship involved, only debts. Perhaps resentment if the person didn’t do as predicted. However, the boy —damn, what was his name again?— didn’t even seem to know what he wanted. He wasn’t trying to be particularly charismatic. He was all flustered, smiling too widely —that was fake, because Lydia knew all about fake smiles and could recognize them— and becoming desperate. So perhaps he just found her pretty. In that case, she knew what to do. Boys who thought girls were pretty wanted kisses or touches. Something to make them proud of themselves, to go brag about to their friends. She could give him that much. Perhaps that would make him stop babbling and blushing.

  
So she did. She sprung forward and interrupted him mid-speech, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. His reaction wasn’t what she thought it would be. The boy became beat-red, grabbed her by the shoulders, told her that he really hoped that she would be happier the next time he saw her, and then ran away as fast as a rabbit would have. Shocked, Lydia crossed her arms and glared at his back as he fled, unsure what to feel about it. Not knowing exactly what was going on in people’s heads made her uneasy, but at the same time, she felt a spark of something, like satisfaction maybe, because the boy crumbled under her gift. It made her feel powerful, somehow, a bit like her big sister who brought older guys home and looked like a queen with a valet. Lydia wanted to be a queen, with people doing things for her, not expecting anything in return, and losing all their manners when she did give something in return.

  
Still. Still, she missed that boy’s presence and incessant blabber already, the feel of her lips pressed against his cheek. Lydia wanted to be a queen, but unlike her sister, she also wanted a king. A king she could hold on to after she heard her parents violently scream at each other because of her. A king she could hold on to when she felt lonely and desperate. Yes, she missed the touch.


	4. On the Hand (Sheriff Stilinski/Melissa)

  
**4- On the hand**   
_Sheriff/Melissa_   


 

Melissa McCall was a beautiful woman, but she was marked by traces of sorrow, loss and age nonetheless. He felt mean for noticing it, but he saw it on her just as he saw it on himself looking in the mirror each morning. They were lucky to not be greying with the constant fear of losing their respective kid to something grand and monstrous that they could barely understand. Wait and tension had not been gentle on them in the past, not during Melissa’s divorce nor after John’s wife’s death, and they were certainly not going to do them any favour this time, not when their problems concerned gangs of werewolves literally baring their teeth at each other.

  
‘But at least, her son is one of them,’ thought John bitterly, and feeling like shit immediately. It was true, though. Scott was more in a position to defend himself. What did Stiles had? A pocket of powder? A brain slightly bigger than the norm? An old man with a useless gun? If only one of them could survive by the end of the year, John would shamefully put his bet on Scott.

  
All of that was made worst by the knowledge that he only had himself to blame. For not being attentive enough. For being sort of an absentee dad. For not getting the fuck out of Beacon Hills, because he feared that Stiles would either hate his guts or run off at some point. He had a feeling that Melissa was drowning in the same line of thought. She was always nibbling her nails, staring at her son with this wide, spooked gaze. Sometimes, she stared at the car, as if it could take the both of them away from all this shit they were trudging in. Obviously, it was not that simple. Here or away, Scott would remain what he was, and problems would follow him. Which was why Stiles had begged him to stay, to not intervene. Because the kind of cursed people that were Scott and Melissa deserved at least a friend to lean on.

  
After a particular rough night —who knew what happened? The only thing they got was a panicked phone call, and a second one, irritatingly enough, telling them to calm down, that everything went just fine— John realized how true that was when Melissa, sitting in the car beside him, plunged her head in her hands. When a long sob escaped her. He thought that it would not be long before the flood of tears started to paint her cheeks and palms, but when she removed her hands from her face, it was dry. There were no tears in Melissa’s eyes; only despair. Despair was dangerous. John had experienced it when Annys died, and it had directly been followed by indifference and depression. It had been excessively hard on Stiles.

  
So when John parked the car in front of the McCalls’s house, he hurried to get out of the car, running around it to open the passenger’s door. Then, he offered his hand to the distressed woman inside his car. Melissa took it, uncertainty and perhaps incredulity furrowing her brows. He helped her out and, gathering all that was left of his courage, brought her hand to his lips.

  
“Ma’am,” he said, before kissing the back of her hand. He then bowed his head, “I am sorry for this disastrous first date, and I will understand if you are not ready to forgive me. I assure you that werewolves were not on the menu.”

  
That earned him a good-natured smile. Magically, it seemed to dissipate a bit of the sorrow, the stress and the despair all at once. John had to be at least a little proud, even if her gaze was measuring him, half-mocking, half-disillusioned, making his cheeks burn despite himself.

  
“Well, sir,” she finally answered, her tone a bit irregular, but tentative, “I am not sure if I can forgive you just yet. You will have to promise to do better than this on our second date.”

  
John’s heart skipped a beat, but he laughed at her proposition and took her in his arms. She clung to him, just as he clung to her. Perhaps they could manage, the both of them, to fight valiantly against anything that the future had in reserve. Perhaps they would last longer together. And perhaps they would not live to see their kids die, after all.

  
Holding on to each other gave them hope.


	5. On the Head (Scott + Isaac)

  
**5- On the head**   
_Scott/Isaac_   


When Isaac came to the McCall’s house, under Scott’s invitation, Melissa made him do all sort of tasks that required being tall such as changing light bulbs or placing things into out of reach cupboards. It was not that Isaac was that much taller than Scott —he had maybe a few inches on him— but he just looked tall.  
This was difficult to explain. He just had that type of lean, muscled body that seemed longer than it was, and he got curly hair. Somehow, that made everyone else feel shorter next to him, and so, as a recurring joke, his mother made him do the tall man’s work.

  
Scott was not insulted by this —after all, it was more Jackson’s style to feel threatened by someone’s height and size— but Isaac began to take the joke further and to treat himself as a giant among tiny people. For instance, he would pet Stiles on the head, lean forward as if to hear better whenever Erica or Boyd were talking (even though Boyd was taller than him!), or he would stand very straight and look down at people. It was all very condescending, even if it was for play.  
To give him a lesson, Scott tried to always place himself in a way that made him gain inches on Isaac. He sat on the back of the couch instead of on the cushions to have several heads on Isaac. He randomly kneeled or crouched on chairs at meetings, like a wolf, getting himself looks. Stuff like that. Isaac didn’t seem to think much of it, since he didn’t comment at all. To emphasize his point, one day, as he squatted on the couch next to Isaac, he kissed the guy on the head. He had thought about simply mussing his hair, but Isaac had already done that before.

  
Isaac looked up at Scott, eyes wide and interrogating. Scott smiled, shrugged and stared right ahead, like Isaac did when people reacted funny to his quirks. To his surprise, Isaac punched him in the arm. Hard.

  
“Ow! What was that for?” he complained.

  
“I don’t know? Why did you kiss me?”

  
“Just trying to be annoyingly tall like you do. I mean, you do shit like that all the time now. Mussing my hair, poking me, looking exaggerately down at me...”

  
“But dude, I never kissed you.” whined Isaac, and Scott was at lost. He wouldn’t bet that Isaac was homophobic, so it had to be something else, but what?

 

“So? That’s a teasing gesture. Friends do teasing gestures. What’s the problem? I didn’t plant one on your mouth.”

  
“Alright, alright...”

But Isaac didn’t look alright. He looked like a lost puppy. Scott slapped himself mentally for the unimaginative dog joke, but it was true: Isaac had this sheepish expression in his still wide eyes, and his mouth was slightly hanging open. Suddenly, he turned towards him and scratched his neck awkwardly. Then, he cleared his throat and leaned forward, bending his head. Scott stared at him, puzzled. Isaac waited a few seconds, and then, timidly...

“Could you do it again?”

Scott, dumbfounded, obeyed. Isaac almost immediately retreated, but he wore that big satisfied smile on his face. As if this had confirmed something for him. Scott couldn’t help but ask what it was.

“It’s nothing, really,” mumbled Isaac, “Just that, I’m not use to getting the kind of attention I want when I seek it. Sorry for punching you.”

“It’s... it’s forgotten already,” Scott said. He hadn’t thought that Isaac was an attention-seeker. It shamed him because it was obvious, really. Isaac, someone with few friends and a father who turned bad in the end, someone who was still juggling between seriously awful life options before him. Of course he’d try to make people react to him. He was lonely.

“You ask and I do it again,” Scott added. “Anytime.”

“Okay, but that proposition is a little gay.”

“So is your tail wiggling at it.”

“Shut up. Thanks.”


	6. On the Neck (Derek/Scott)

  
**6- On the neck**   
_Derek/Scott_   


Truth of the matter was, Derek wanted Scott in a different way than the latter could imagine. He didn’t just need his mere assistance. He desired Scott in his wholeness.

  
They were very different, the both of them, and so they took on problems different ways. Somehow, Scott’s way almost always seemed to succeed, at least for the time being. Scott was also better at making friends, at making people trust him, at pulling them on his side. All Derek had accomplished by now was straining relationships between he and his pack, he and his uncle, he and everyone else. Scott was not by any mean perfect, and he did fail to see shades of grey from time to time, but he was rapidly and surely progressing, gaining both experience and confidence. It was amazing to see him go, little awkward teenage boy that he was, and become a humble leader for his own pack.

  
Derek wanted that. He wanted this kind of progression for himself. He felt stuck in his position, as he had for a long time. Becoming an Alpha didn’t help him to improve. In fact, it seemed to have further cemented him in a kind on impasse with no view on the future. He never knew what to do anymore.  
This was the reason why he wanted Scott at his side. He wanted to impregnate himself with Scott’s qualities, to rub them on his own flaws in order to erase them and, in return, trying to do the same with Scott. He wanted the both of them to form a completion, two halves of the same coin. He wanted support, to give support; more than anything else, he wanted to be felt and understood. He wanted to feel pride and gratitude, wanted to feel that he belonged. And for that, he needed an equal.

  
But for the moment, all he was able to feel was that growing lust between the two of them. Indeed, from the beginning, Scott and him had been turning around each other, inevitably drawn to the other. Despite their numerous fights and disagreements, they always came back to work with the other, and it was not even as if they were forced to do so half of the time.

  
Instant attractions were frequent among the werewolves community. It was just a thing that happened. It had nothing to do with love. More with compatibility. A pull towards someone that were not exactly your opposite, but had enough differences to make you see another point of view. Diversity, changes and mixes were essential for survival.

  
Scott didn’t seem to be aware of it. He did feel the tension, that was for sure, and responded to it furiously, but even with his enhanced werewolves senses, the dummy couldn’t tell anger from rough sexual desire. He was blinded by his own self-righteousness. So Derek had to be the one to initiate something before they both went crazy with it. Which, of course, is why Derek had done nothing until now. Sharing sexual tension with a teenager was already problematic, but with a teenager who seemed to concentrate so hard to hate his guts? Doing anything would make him feel like a miserable manipulative piece of shit. He wanted Scott most ardently, but not to the point of tainting him, at least not yet. Not before he matured a bit.

  
He was very surprised when, during a sparring session, Scott kissed him.

  
Actually, Scott bit him. Hard. On the neck. Indeed, as he was plastering the younger man on the ground, pining him there and waiting for him to come up with a way to defend himself, or to most likely give up, Scott bit him. It hurt, as Scott was slowly transforming, planting his fangs into Derek’s flesh enough to draw blood. Derek did not give in to the temptation of just turning too and ravishing the youngster. The bite still turned into something else, something more sexual than violent (although both are not exclusive qualities). As if Scott suddenly realized that all that aggressiveness between them, all that animosity amounted to more than just antagonism and differences. Scott clung to him, arching his body, as he continued to lick, nibble and kiss the bruised skin between Derek’s jaw and shoulder.  
For a fraction of second, Derek almost wanted to turn his head and kiss him on the lips, licking inside his mouth, taking everything he wanted, but he did not. He sat brusquely and slapped some sense into Scott, that’s what he did. He should have done so right at the beginning. Now, both of them had an erection and any further encounters would be awkward.

  
Scott looked at him in shock, as if he was at last processing what he had done. How he was on the verge of cheating on his not-girlfriend Argent.

  
‘Good’, thought Derek, ‘Cling to Allison. Remember her and put her as a fence between you and I. Because if you don’t, I’m not going to be able to resist much too long and I’m going to eat you up all right. I’m so tired of restraining myself. So tired...’

Derek wiped his neck and left, leaving a flabbergasted Scott behind, much like he did when Erica pulled a similar trick on him. One day, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He feared that day would come sooner than later.


	7. On the Lips (Derek/Stiles)

  
**7- On the lips**   
_Derek/Stiles_   


Once the first kiss was out of the way, it was incredibly difficult for Stiles and Derek to just stop kissing. They never went further than that and a bit of groping, at Derek’s rather desperate insistence, but they’ve already lost count of the number of kisses they had shared since the first one.

The activity has become quite easy too. Stealing a kiss, demanding for one, even forcing one or cajoling the other into giving one... all of it was fair play. It was even better when one of them managed to surprise the other, drawing out a nice little moan, or even a shout. If it bothered any of the others, they didn’t notice, too obsessed with each other.

  
It had not even come out as a surprise. One good day, as they savoured their victory over one of these blood-seeking, trouble-making, terror-inspiring Alphas (Ennis, was it his name?) they had simply spontaneously locked lips and it had all made sense. Derek had a long moment of hesitation, inevitably assailed by a multitude of doubts and scruples, but the way he stared at Stiles longingly somehow told him that he had already won.

Derek kissed like he did everything else: solemnly, with a touch of aggressiveness and impatience. He gripped Stiles face a little too tightly in his hands so he could have absolute control over the kiss. He went into it lavishly, but a tad of reserve was making itself apparent, what with Derek’s shoulders and upper body being way too tense, as though he thought he’d had to take off at some point. Nevertheless, he never pushed Stiles towards anyone else and even discouraged it, making a point of kissing him in front of the others. Still, his worries, his possessiveness and his neurosis were part of an overall intoxicating passion, which Stiles found he could and would not do without. This way Derek had to cling to him and plunged into his mouth anytime he wanted to —or even needed to, it seemed— made him feel alive and important. Of course, he already knew he was important (Scott could take all the idiotic initiatives he wanted, he would still be dead meat without his heroic, Batmanic friend) but Derek was willing to prove it to him again, and again.

Stiles kissed methodically, at times trying to make up for his lack of experience (which was gradually fading anyway) with passion, and other times by giving all of the control he wanted to Derek. He was always going into a kiss conscientiously, was always attentive to his partner’s reactions. Whereas Derek struggled against a few uncertainties, Stiles did not. He knew what felt right, at least for the time being, and he kissed like someone afraid that their belongings would be taken away from them sooner or later. This made Derek feel like he was appreciated, precious even, that he was wanted and that he did, indeed, have a home.

They never felt used. They didn’t feel like they were using the other either, not really. They were just perfectly aligned, completing each other enough to be a solid moral and physical support when things were stressful or dreadful, or an exquisite haven of peace when the situation was more or less dandy.

In fact, sometimes, the only problem appeared to be that there were no problem in sight concerning their relationship. There should have been a ton. For one, they did not even have much in common. They used to always bumped heads, a constant source of irritation for the other, because their opinion about how to handle a certain situation would differ radically. Of course, both Derek and Stiles were rational, practical, survivalists men. They had that over Scott, who was a total idealist and a bit of a Manichean at times. Nevertheless, different traumas, fears and attachments had pull them apart until now. So what was it that pushed them together against all odds? Why was the attraction so strong and stomach-twisting, making them keen and swooning just after a small kiss? They had no idea. So, even as they kissed languidly as much as they could, they couldn’t help but wait for the other shoe to drop, hoping it did not.


	8. On the Chest (Jackson/Danny)

  
**8- On the chest**   
_Danny/Jackson_   


Breaking up was always a sad and embarrassing experience for Danny. When he was the one to put an end to a relationship, he felt like an asshole because he never seemed to have a good enough reason to cut ties off except for a sudden lack of interest. Having the ex-boyfriend questioned him with a sad, shocked tone made him feel both guilty and annoyed. It was still worst when he was the one being dumped, and it was made terrible when the ex-boyfriend inexplicably held some kind of grudge against him.

  
Danny failed to understand what he had done to deserve all the glares, the mean smirks, the contemptuous sarcastic remarks, or any of the attempts to render him jealous and angry. He wasn’t about to fall over and burst into tears like a distressed lover, but he had to admit that being tensed and on his guards all the time on top of having to look out yet again for a new someone, all of that was pretty depressing.

  
Unfortunately, Danny had no one to talk to. He refused to talk to his family about relationship stuff, and he wasn’t close to anyone in the bunch of acquaintances and ‘friends’ he had at school and at the club. The only close friend he had was, in fact, Jackson. He figured that Jackson would not be a good listener.  
When things got a little rocky between him and Lydia, Jackson would come to Danny and vent for hours. Even when he stopped talking, he was still ranting in his head, and it was so apparent that it might as well had been said clear and loud. Danny would remain quiet and solemn, nodding or staring in disapproval, being a loyal, but honest confident. However, when it was turn to ask for a similar favour, Danny had a mental-block. Perhaps he thought his friend a little too narcissistic to be on the receiving end of a venting session. Or perhaps Danny simply didn’t have it in him to share pain with anyone. Whatever it was, it made him stay in his room to broom for a whole weekend.

  
In the end, on Sunday night, it was Jackson who went to Danny. He looked a little frustrated and immediately started to pace in Danny’s room. For a moment, he thought that Jackson was there because something had happened to him. Perhaps a fight with Lydia, or a confrontation with Scott McCall or his excitable, smart-mouth buddy. He was surprised when Jackson asked him what was wrong.

  
“Nothing at all,” he answered quickly, and he would have slapped himself. Jackson, one eyebrow raised in disbelief, stared at him. Of course, he had caught on the obvious lie.

“Right. And I’m best friend with a werewolf.”

“What?”

“Nothing. The fact is, you can’t hide stuff to me, Danny. And I know that something’s eating at you. You’ve been cloistered here all weekend, and you spent most of last week walking around in your gloomy bubble. Seriously, if you thought you were hiding it well, think again, dummy.”

Well, shit. Now, Danny would have to explain. He didn’t want to. If Jackson tried to tell him that ‘there were other fish in the sea’, or that it was stupid to worry about a meaningless crush that did not last more than a month and a half or so, Danny would have to punch him. Or yell at him. He did not feel like fighting. He answered anyway.

“It’s Damian.”

“Who?”

Danny rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Damian. My ex? You know that infamous night when I and a few others were intoxicated at the club? He was there and taunted me. He’s still doing it. And I don’t get it, because he’s the one who left me. So, there you have it.”

“Oh.” Jackson simply said. Somehow, he was already at lost for words. He sat on the bed next to Danny and patted him on the shoulder. Danny tensed, already unnerved by Jackson’s sympathy. At least it was real, he could feel it, but it was still like a fly nagging him. He did not want to be pitied. He told Jackson so.

“I’m not pitying you, man. I’m being there for you. Like you do every time I need you. That is something friends do for each other, no? And it’s not a one way thing. Or was that what you were thinking?”

Danny hesitated and did no give any answer. Jackson stared at him, affronted.

“What? Really? You think that I’m using you as... I don’t know, some sort of verbal toilet? Someone to just vent to when I’m angry? Danny, we’ve been hanging out since we were like ten! I punched a guy n the face and got my ass kicked for you!”

“Yes, I remember that, don’t worry. It’s just...” he mussed his hair aggressively in frustration, not finding the words without them sounding offensive to his susceptible friend. “Look, there’s no other way to tell it —I thought I would be boring you with my problems. That you wouldn’t want to listen. You seem very absorbed by yourself for the time being, and no it’s not really a critic, I just figure that maybe you have enough to sort out on your own without me telling you all about how I let myself be affected by a jerk who doesn’t know what he wants.”

Jeez, now Jackson looked a bit hurt. Danny sighed and continued.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, or anything. I’m not good with talking about... my feelings, I guess. And seeing where it’s going with Lydia, you’re not good at receiving them. You’re the type to destroy a guy’s face to save my honour, that’s who you are.”

“I can’t really deny that, but the least you could do is try. I cannot help you if you just assume these things about me, and I don’t necessarily know when I have to worm something out of you. Because, heh, I’m ‘very absorbed with myself’. Well, so what if I am. YOU are way too absorbed with what’s going on in other people’s head. You’re starting to think for them!”

“True, true. I do assume a lot.” Danny admitted, a little smile tugging his lips. Even for a narcissist, Jackson often had the knack to put some sense into him.

“You are a bit distrustful, is all. I won’t wonder why, with all the idiots in this town, McCall being the first one.”

“There. I knew you didn’t come here just to inquire about my problems!” Danny exclaimed, laughing.

“No, no, no! We’re not talking about me! Yet!” Jackson had this ‘deer in the headlights’ expression on his face. He was really trying. That was sweet.

“You might as well. I told you everything. Damian wants to provoke me and it bugs me. It’s that simple.”

“What you need is another guy to put all of your attention on.” Jackson suggested.

“Jake at the club had the same idea, and I did dance with some cute guy, but then I got intoxicated by some jackass and I hadn’t had any chance since. I might be losing my touch.”

“Nah... You? That can’t be. Must be your gloomy mood that is sending the wrong vibe to potential princes charming,” Jackson joked, “Maybe if you tried going out of your lair and smile a little. You’ll see, there are plenty of other fish in—”

Danny sighed and punched Jackson in the chest, hard enough to bruise. To his surprise, Jackson laughed instead of asking him what that was for. It was kind of a humourless laugh. Danny worried.

“I knew you wouldn’t like that phrase,” Jackson said, “Easier to say than done, huh? Okay, maybe I should shut up after all. I’m shit at comforting people.”

“Well, you’re more of an physical type of guy. You prefer doing things than putting them into words. That’s fine.”

“So what you are saying, is that I should comfort you physically? That’s pretty gay, man, even for you.”

“Shut up! That’s not what I said at all! How would you even convey that into actions anyway— Jackson, what are you doing?”  
Jackson had just put his hand on his face, slowly caressing his cheek and looking at him with that intense gaze of his. Danny gritted his teeth.

“What do you think? I’m being physical, as it is what I’m best at.”

“That’s being sensual and it’s very out of place. Besides, you are not my type.”

“Right. I thought we went over that already?” His tone was lower, and he was getting closer. Danny felt his heart skip a beat. He hated when Jackson had this kind of affect on him. Jackson was his friend.

“If you kiss me, I’m gonna have to punch you again. Harder. In that charming face of yours.”

“Charming, heh? Well, I should punch you. In retaliation for earlier.”

“Right.”

“Instead, I want to kiss you. To show you some love. To show you how sexy and desirable you still are, even though one miserable douche whom no one cares about doesn’t think so.”

Danny averted his eyes, feeling his skin burn up his neck and cheeks. He couldn’t help but smile, because this was Jackson trying to cheer him up, but all of this attention made him feel funny and he didn’t want that. He was not to want that.

“You’re making me uncomfortable, Jack.”

“No, I’m making you aroused. Admit it.”

“How arrogant can you be?!” Danny cried, short of infuriated. How dare Jackson take advantage of his feelings like that? But when he looked back at his friend, he saw the seriousness in his eyes, the gentleness in his smile, nothing mocking it them. His anger faded out immediately.

“Want me to show you? Come on, Dan, let me take care of you a little.”

And Danny let him. He let Jackson caress him and get rid of his shirt. Let him do the same with his. Let him hug him tightly and put his hands to places friends should not touch each other.

Then, Jackson kissed him at the base of his neck. He did not stop there: he dropped off a series of butterfly kisses down his chest. Danny quivered and indulged himself by roaming his hands through Jackson’s hair. He started when Jackson sucked on his skin, shuddered when he got to his nipples, groaned when he bit him lightly, right where the heart would be. Then it was over.

“What about Lydia?” Danny said, a little dazed.

“We’re still not together Danny. And I’m not sure we should be again. Or ever. It’s... No talking about me!”

“I’m talking about us. What about our friendship? Won’t it be tainted?”

“I don’t believe in tainting friendships with sex. Sex is supposed to be fun, not heavy.”

“It’s more complicated than you think it is, Jack.”

“Don’t overthink this, please. When we think we ought to stop, we’ll stop! Learn to seize the day, Danny, it’s great, we’d be great! After all, I just made you forget about your stupid lovesickness.”

Well, that was true. Oops.

“I... I didn’t even know you were not hetero.” Danny said, trying to change the subject so it did not go to Jackson’s head.

“Then, you’re blind, my friend. And really, you need to trust me. Just a little. Just to give it a try.”

“Okay. Yes. You are probably right...”

“I am right and you know it. Also, did I mention that I love to enlarge my horizon?”

“You love to put your dick into things—” Jackson made that kind of purring sound, “Don’t even think about it!” Danny laughed, but he was already leaning forward.


	9. On the Bellybutton (Scott/Stiles)

 

  
**9- On the bellybutton**   
_Stiles/Scott_

They didn’t think or talk about it much, but sometimes, Scott and Stiles liked to be physically intimate with each other. They would not fuck, still young and unsure about their own desires and sexuality, but they would lie around naked, touching each other as much as possible. It especially tended to happen in the summer of their fourteenth year.

Both of the boys’s single parent were working long shifts, sometimes at night, and Scott and Stiles figured that spending all of their time with their best friend most certainly beat glooming alone about absentee overworked parents. However, spending all of your time with your best friend also meant running out of subjects of conversations at some point. So they would quietly play video games, sitting real close to each other. They would read comic books, lying one next to the other or even across the other, without talking. They would marathon movies they’ve seen a million times without commenting them, Scott lying on the couch, his head in Stiles’s lap while the latter played with his hair. They figured that if girls did that kind of touching all the time, why would it be inappropriate for guys to do the same? As long as nobody saw, of course.

Although they were quite comfortable in each other’s presence, in each other’s silences, there were times when it became just a little too much to handle. It was like a heavy weight strapped on the shoulders that made you tremble under it; that made you wish for any kind of relief. If they waited long enough, it probably wouldn’t last too long, but they never waited. They feared that it would create a breach in their friendship, somehow. Besides, what good could it do them to endure any tension at all? So they inhaled and broke the silence, with anything they could come up with.

Most of the time, Scott had to take the initiative. Stiles would lie on his back on his bed, numbly staring at the ceiling, doing nothing. He often looked like he was trapped in a whole other world, pretty far away. He looked empty. It was quite a scary sight, since everyone else would have described Stiles, any moment of the day, as a lively, perhaps overexcited kid. Stiles even had to take pills to help him concentrate. Even in their silent sessions, Stiles would at least move a lot, a constant quivering, his eyes shifting, the corners of his lips pulling up or down. Stiles was a nervous person, a person of movements. Seeing him so calm, so immobile and absent, it was quite a scary sight. Scott could hardly stand it.

One day, it got worst. Stiles was crying. His body was not shaken by wretched sobs, there were no moans, no hands angrily wiping tears away: there were only Stiles, on his back, breathing slowly and staring at the ceiling as tears silently streamed from his eyes. Obviously, Scott got worried and had to push at it, whatever it was. Unfortunately, all of his attempts to make conversation were rebuffed and, eventually, Stiles even turned on his side, presenting him his back. Scott just sat there on the bed, his mouth hanging open, unable to process Stiles’s sudden sorrow. All he knew, at that moment, was that if Stiles’s good mood was salvageable, it depended entirely on him. If words did not work, he had to act. Do something, anything, as long as it provoked a positive reaction, or even a semblance of one.

Scott, in all the glory of his adolescent mind, chose a mix of violence and silliness to relieve the ambiance of some of its tension: he leaped on Stiles, turned him on his back and straddled him before seizing a pillow and hitting his friend with it. Stiles closed his eyes and snorted, but he did not retaliate or smile. Panicked, Scott leaned on him and blow on his face. Still barely something: the fluttering of Stiles eyelashes and a very weak-sounding groan. Scott was beginning to lose patience.

“I’ll make you react, you know!” he snarled.

Stiles stared at him, slowly and provocatively raised an eyebrow, and breathed out “I dare you.”

Ticked off, Scott rummaged through his mind to find something good and unpredictable to do. Stiles was waiting, inert. The tears weren’t rolling down his face anymore, but he still had that pained expression under his daring rictus. The only thing that Scott could think about was that Stiles looked like some lonely, love-needing little bird. A birdie that fell off the nest. Or perhaps, one that was abandoned in a nest. Of course, Stiles hadn’t been abandoned, not exactly, but he was often alone and there were more traumas holing his life. The sheriff, come to think of it, seemed to enter a whole other world too, and frequently at that. Three years after their big tragedy, and they were still adjusting. Stiles, Scott suddenly understood, had just flashback moments, a bit like he himself got when the thought that he didn’t really have a father no more hit him. But worst.

Stiles needed to be mothered a little, Scott decided. To be reminded that he was loved and appreciated. But not in a worried, pitying way. Camouflaged sympathy that could easily be accepted. For a strange moment, Scott had the urge to just kiss Stiles. He remembered that Stiles’s mother was a kisser. She would always randomly kiss Stiles, her husband, or even he and his mother, to show her happiness and affection. Of course, kissing Stiles on the lips seemed perhaps just a tad inappropriate in this situation, and he wasn’t sure how it’d be interpreted. Lips were way too serious. What was a body part that wasn’t serious at all? Scott had an idea.

He moved back to give himself space, then he pushed back Stiles’s T-shirt. He got a shudder. Stiles moved his head, frowning, staring at him. His gaze was interested, though, and not repulsed, so this was a good starting point. Scott, his cheek already ablaze and his heart pounding, plunged forward and kissed Stiles on the belly. Stiles jerked and a surprised sigh escaped him. Encouraged, Scott decided to go further and licked his friend’s stomach. He then blow on the spittle, and Stiles seemed to relax. When Scott put his mouth on his bellybutton and dipped his tongue in, he yelped. When Scott hollowed his cheeks and blowed, hard, he bursted into laughter. Scott joined him.

“Dude, what was that!” Stiles exclaimed, happily. Scott could only grin at his tone. It had worked: he had gotten a reaction. He was a genius.

“Thought you looked a little er grum.”

“Grim, Scott.” Stiles corrected him.

“Grim, yeah. You were grim and it bothered me. I thought you needed a little love. You had the face of a guy who needed a little love.”

“Oh yeah, I needed love in the form of your saliva and fart noises. I wish they’d sell this form of love, so you could tell me where you got it.”

“It made you laugh, so you have no room to tease.”

“That was surprise!” Stiles protested, “Like, how the hell was I suppose to know that you were going to baby me like that! For a moment, I thought....”

“Yeah?” Scott pressed him, worried again. Did he do something wrong? Stiles sounded so serious and contemplative there. But his friend sat down and grinned at him. All of his energy appeared to have been pumped back into him, in a second, as if his few minutes of depression had never happened at all.

“Well! If you really want to know, I thought you were going to blow me, in a whole other fashion, because you found my aloof attitude awesomely attractive, and my tears pretty. Let’s face it, I’m irresistible.”

“What the fuck is a ‘loof’? And how the hell can tears be pretty? I thought you were sad, man! Not attractive!”

“Can’t I be both? I mean, tears can look beautiful under the right angle. They make the eyes shine! That gives them a nice quality.”

“You’re fucked up. Tears are distressful.”

“Well, sorry for ‘distressing’ you. I thought it was about me.”

“Oh, it is! It really is! I didn’t mean to say I was more distressed than you are, I was totally worried for you and I thought about what you might feel, and why, and it doesn’t matter what I felt, I just wanted you to smile again, and of course you are attra—”

Stiles shut him up by planting a smacking kiss on his lips. Scott felt his face starting to burn again, but he smiled back and let his friend take him in his arms. Stiles did not want to talk about it. He had almost forgotten. But that’s okay. If the mood shifted in that direction again, Scott would give Stiles all of the kisses and hugs he needed.

“Thanks, Scott.” Stiles mutter, and then, almost imperceptibly: “Love ya, dude.”

“You’re welcome. L-love you too, Stiles. I’m there for you.”

And he'll be for a long time, if Stiles let him. But just for the form, he added:

"But I won't blow you. Find a way to do that alone."


End file.
